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Who is Killing the Great Capes of Heropa(5)

By:Andrez Bergen


“Huh?”

He glanced up to see a ton of bricks stuck together in the shape of a person. There were even patches of white cement smeared between the ochre-coloured bricks.

This arrival had on a giant-size trench coat that was open, displaying more paving across the torso, and propped up on the back of his great, stony skull was a small hat at a jaunty angle. The charcoal-grey straw number had an indented, fedora-style crown like every other man Jack had seen here, but contrarily sported a narrow brim, only about two inches wide, making it more 1960s than 1940s.

“The guy on the billboard an’ the one inside it,” the rock man was saying. “They’re one an’ the same. The Big O, as you can see from the symbol on his mask — a.k.a. Sir Omphalos. Not sure if we should be labellin’ it irony, coincidence, or damn well freaky.”

“Either way, this puts a dampener on proceedings,” put in Pretty Amazonia, who’d settled on the divan next to Jack. He hadn’t noticed the woman doing that — thought she was still on the other side of the large room. She propped her face in her hands, elbows resting on her knees. “Especially after what happened to the Aerialist.”

“Think there’s a connection?”

“They were definitely shagging.”

“That so?”

“You know so.”

“Do I?” The big man contracted cobbled shelving around his eyes. “Jealous rage? D’you reckon Stellar’s capable?”

“That cow? Gypsie-Ann is one clever lady.”

“Somethin’ you don’t have to worry yerself about.”

“Precisely.”

Jack lifted his gaze over both their heads and stared at the death masks. He’d been tuning out to this gossipy exchange between the two heroes, but after the rock man nodded he swung around.

“Oh, yeah — who the flying fig’re you?”

Leaning too far forward, shuffling his mask from hand to hand, Jack failed completely any attempt to play it laid back. “Southern Cross,” he said.

“How corny can yer get? Why the stupid name?”

“Tongue-in-cheek? We can’t exactly see the Southern Cross anymore.”

“He means back in Melbourne,” Pretty Amazonia kindly interpreted.

“I know what he bloody well means.”

“Course you do.” She rolled her eyes.

The newcomer eased himself into the couch on the other side of the table, which groaned. Jack was surprised the thing didn’t break in two.

“Reinforced,” the man said, no doubt tipped off from the expression on Jack’s face. He shoved his massive, fifteen-inch-long, shoebox-shaped right foot on the table on top of the news. “Yeah, all right, fair enough. ‘Scuse the manners. I’m the Brick.”

“So why the stupid name?” Yes, it was well-nigh impossible to resist the flip.

“What d’you reckon — yer nursin’ an eyesight prob? Captures the spirit o’ my charming good looks.” He leaned over, holding forth a massive, four-fingered mitt as big as a pizza. “You seem okay, bub.”

“Likewise.” Jack thought the handshake was going to break every bone, but it was gentle. Apparently the walking/talking footpath again caught scent of the concern.

“Not invulnerable, eh?”

“Nope.”

“Powers?”

“Some kind of weird blast thingy that comes out of the hand you nicely didn’t crunch.”

“Ah.” The Brick took out a paper bag, rummaged, and stuck a long, dirty-pink stick of something into the slit of his mouth. He then offered one. “Big Boss Cigar?”

“Huh?”

“Big Boss Cigar.”

“What the heck is that?”

“Caramel-flavoured candy — since we ain’t able to indulge in the real McCoy here, figured I’d pretend to smoke.”

“Think I’m fine without.”

“I also have old school Fags. Ta-dah.”

He conjured up a box, smaller than the size of a twenty-pack of cigarettes, painted in garish blue, red and yellow with a couple of cartoonish kids running across it.

“Tobacco?” Jack asked dubiously.

“Lollies from Melbourne’s distant past, bub — we’re not in Kansas anymore. In the shape o’ wee li’l cigarettes. See?”

The Brick flourished a hard white stick in the air before Jack. It had a red tip, looking for the entire world like, yes, a cigarette.

“Oh, yeah.”

“Our Mister B does love his sweets,” remarked the Pretty Amazonia woman beside him.

“Ain’t nothin’ better, ’cept the ridgy didge originals.”

The Brick looked over with liquid blue eyes, the only part Jack could see of the brute that was wet. He wondered about the inside of the gravelly mouth.